Paris bar/café guide: WUD #14 Au Claire de Lune

Café Forget-me-not. I sure the hell did.

Perhaps a mild shock in the scheme of things, yet how in the effing world could I forget Au Claire de Lune!?

That’s like forgetting the great 1992 Neil Young album, Harvest Moon.

Sheeeeer laaaziness and utter thick-headedness, that’s how. Better be careful or my hyperbole will begin to match that of Master of Extreme Dangers, Sir Alistair MacLean. Please tell me you’ve read him or at least have heard of him.

Anyway, I’d convinced myself that if I didn’t think about or go back to this bar/café shoehorned between the Goutte D’Or’s rue Poulet and the butte of Sacre Coeur, it would only confirm (validate, justify, bullshit?) its unworthiness in my snobbish bar life.

“It’s probably changed beyond recognition,” I told myself. “The surrounding areas, not a favorite, feels like one big ice cream shop for the non-Monmartrois,” I added, or some such bullcrap.

Lazy, like I said.

Then one Friday night, after PLU’s magazine launch at the (now closed) Floors bar across the way, a group of us skedaddled on over to La Lune, as I call it. Our plan was easy: grab a cold one to ring in the fledgling summer.

“What was I thinking?” I said with a beer mug in one hand and, as if a pesky mosquito had just landed there, slapping my sweaty forehead with the other. Quite frankly, the place is great. Central bar with curly-cue tubes of light hitting mirrors—perfect rationing of eye candy. Doing what an open-walled bar on the corner with ample sidewalk spillage is supposed to do in Paris.

The lighting is very important, not to your liver though

Pack ‘em up, pack ‘em in. Let us begin...

Scrunched up, indeed, but not lung-crushing. Just a light brushing of male and female body parts, in no way meant to be intrusive or uncomfortable. I like when a place has a good balance of chromosome and hormones. As long as everyone behaves and respects each other’s space, without actually invading it, then we should be all good.

The African dude behind the bar, cool and virile, is eager to show off his American homeboy mannerisms. Not just to me. I was with lady friends. The second barkeep is from Columbia and she is super sweet with a patient, open smile. The third is acting like a dick without actually being a true dickhead, if you catch my drift, but hey you can’t win them all. He’s a grouchy Lebanese who thought I was popping poppers and got upset about it.

“Take a chill pill if you want,” I tell him in English, not convincing him the little vial I’m always carrying is my famous 6-C oil, a 100% organic cinnamon essential oil recipe blend that I so humbly invented. (if you know me, you’ve sniffed this many many a time)

Aaaaah...

After two-hours of smooching and schmoozing up Megan’s soon-to-be birthday and departure, I go home.

Two months later, I head back one afternoon with Dr. Thomas, mere days after Belgium’s World Cup defeat to France. He’s from a small town called Aalst, less than an hour outside of Brussels and, as none of you may know, this country is my spirit-home. A whole ‘nother book in itself. The bar matron sees our hangdog expressions and presses us to her metaphorical bosom in her own special way by supplying us with copious amounts of Porto on ice for yours truly and gin and tonics for Mr. Medicine next to me.

Just what the doctor ordered. The sun comes out. We have the back of the place to our pitiful selves.

You can sit yourself in so many different positions here, it’s like the Kama Sutra of all cool cafés. Anyway, flashbacks begin flooding me. The many, many sessions I spent here writing stories and songs, second only to Le Sully bar in terms of billable man-hours. A damn fine place to get rip-roaring drunk in, which we summarily did in honor, of course, to Belgium; the little heart-shaped dutiful kingdom sitting cropped and propped on the very hexagon-shaped beautiful French one.

Kinda like a sundae, with a Lambic-soaked cherry on top. Yum…

Find it here:

https://www.google.com/maps/search/?api=1&query=Au%20Clair%20De%20Lune

Other nice things around here: Le Goutte D’or, the Golden Drop, an African paradise. The No Problemo, a great little gem of a bar. Cave Café, a solid American-owned place. La Chope across the street. Les 3 Fréres is a 5 minute walk away. Le 34 piano bar is cool as well. Le Recyclerie is up north at metro Clignacourt. Les Innocents bar is very cozy. So much changes here, you gotta find out shit for yo-self…